


Buried

by ssstrychnine



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mockingjay Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effie Trinket cultivates mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried

There are many things that people don’t know about Effie Trinket. The year she was born, for one, her natural hair colour, her biggest fear. She cultivates these unknowable things, a cocoon of secrets, she thinks it makes her more mysterious, public figure that she is, she thinks it keeps her _safe_. She imagines people analysing her eyebrows to figure out what her hair hair looks like under a wig and she starts drawing them on blue. She imagines people estimating her age, escort since the sixty third games and stylist for two years before, and she paints her face in such a way that it’s almost impossible to know how old she might be. A mask of glitter and glow and shine. But Haymitch Abernathy has always hated her, Haymitch _Abernathy_ doesn't even _try_ to get beneath the surface, _Haymitch Abernathy_ figures out every unknowable thing about her.

It’s her age first, and she knows it’s her fault, she never should have developed _traditions_ with this man. They didn't like each other, but as much as they both tried to hide it, they didn't like killing children either. So they drink every year, after their kids have gone and died and before Haymitch goes back to District Twelve, and really it’s just like any other night for him only with fancier cocktails because Effie insists, because she doesn't drink and she certainly won’t drink the raw, vicious spirits that he pours down his throat. She never gets used to it, she gets drunk quicker than him every time, and she wilts, very slowly, across the table, until her head is pillowed by her arms and there is glitter on every surface.

“I saw you, you know,” she tells him one year. “I saw your Games.”

“Everyone saw my Games.”

“No but I _saw_ you,” she insists, sitting up slightly, changing her mind, drifting back down onto her arms. “I was fourteen and you were handsome, not like now, you actually looked like a human being. I don’t how you've ruined yourself so badly, there’s a foundation there somewhere.” 

“I think there was a compliment in there somewhere,” he says gruffly, covering a smile with his hand. “So you’re what...thirty five?” 

Effie sits up. 

“I’m _what_?” she squeaks.

“You were fourteen at the fiftieth, it’s the seventy first now...when’s your birthday?”

“Oh are you going to buy me a present?” she hisses, knocking back her drink in one, wincing and shuddering. “Who taught _you_ mathematics? I’ll want _words_ with them.”

“You’re older than I thought,” Haymitch says, grinning at her slyly and she wails, slumps across the table again, covers her ears with her hands.

It’s just that one night, drinking and talking or drinking and not talking and then Haymitch leaves for another year and she only thinks about him when she’s angry. And then she picks more children to die and they’re back to everything else, screaming and fighting and hating one another. 

The Quarter Quell is different, it always is, she’d known that even at fourteen watching Haymitch on his knees, Haymitch with his insides hanging out, Haymitch using the arena. She is afraid before it even starts, when she has to say his name. Katniss and Peeta go back in and she soaks her pillowcase with tears. Another secret she will never tell. 

She thinks that Haymitch is acting strangely, she has known him long enough to know when something isn't right, but he doesn't offer her anything to go on and she’s learned from experience not to prickle at him when he’s on the edge of something vicious. 

On the morning of the third day he watches her closely, like he as a decision to make. 

“Do I have an eyelash?” she asks him, fluttering her lashes outrageously, and he laughs and something in his expression tells her he’s made up his mind.

“I've got something to show you,” he says.

He doesn't give her the chance to fight back. He takes her by the hand and she’s so stunned by that, the gentle weight of his palm against hers, that she doesn't even realise that he’s taking her somewhere she doesn't recognise. And then he turns to face her, keeps her hand fast in his, and he’s looking at her with an expression like broken glass, vicious and brittle and a second away from shattering further.

“Sorry, princess,” he says and then something stings her neck and everything goes dark.

When she wakes up they are flying and immediately she starts to scream. She is strapped into a seat on a plane and there are no windows, nothing but cold iron and nylon and flashing lights, and no matter how hard she fights it she can’t move. Haymitch is there in a moment and she swipes at him with her fingernails and he staggers backwards, almost falls, and she knows she won’t be able to get at him again and digs her nails into her palms instead. He has a black eye already, she decides she will marry whoever did it.

“Let me go,” she hisses.

“Effie,” he says, a pleading quality in his voice she’s never heard before. “You’ll be killed if I let you go back.”

“What’s happened?” she whispers, shutting her eyes.

“Katniss broke the Games, we’re going to District Thirteen.” 

Effie wants to laugh. She had thought she _knew_ him. She’d been Twelve’s Escort for more than ten years and he had always been there and she’d thought they were... She opens her eyes. 

“Is Katniss alive? Peeta?” 

“Katniss yes, she’s on the plane, unconcious, she’s the one who prettied up my face,” he gestures vaguely at his black eye and Effie barks out a laugh. “We couldn't get to Peeta, the Capitol has him.”

“The Capitol,” Effie whispers. “You mean _my_ people?” 

Haymitch shrugs awkwardly, at least has the grace to look sheepish. Then he moves closer to her, sits down in the seat next to hers. He rests his hands on his knees, presses his fingers down hard. She remembers him holding her hand. Remembers him being kind before he let someone drug her into unconsciousness. She hopes that whatever mark the needle left at her neck will fade properly.

“Effie you’re gonna have to get out of those clothes,” he says, inspecting his hands like they’re just _so_ interesting. 

“I am _not_ ,” she spits.

“The place we’re going, they aren't gonna like you as you are,” he continues, and he’s being so _careful_ with his wording. More careful than Haymitch ever is. It _infuriates_ her. “You’ll need to change.”

“Who would have thought that Haymitch Abernathy is man enough to have a girl drugged unconscious but not man enough to rip her clothes off,” she snaps, wanting to come across biting and vicious but instead hitting the edges of hysteria. “I _demand_ to speak to someone else, someone less spineless.” 

“Shut your mouth,” he snarls, finally looking at her, his eyes cold fire. “You think you would have been left _alive_? They would have found one tiny fucking thing, some scrap of evidence linking you to us and you would have been gone. Tortured maybe, used as leverage maybe, but no one from District Thirteen would have cared about you. Only Katniss, only Peeta, only...” he laughs, rubbing a hand across his face. “Only me.” 

“Liar.” 

“You’re here aren't you?” 

Effie doesn't say anything. She’s not even angry really. She’s relieved that Katniss is alive. She’s frightened for Peeta. She’s exhausted. She feels dirty and uncomfortable and trapped and terrified, but she isn't angry. She will deal with this like she deals with everything, dead children and the beauty that covers it all up. It makes sense that Escorts and Stylists are usually those most critical of the Capitol, they’re around the children the most, they get to see passed the screen. And Effie isn't one of them, not really, not a _radical_ , but she can still see it. She has known all her life that all her beauty could be taken from her in a moment. She has seen it happen to others. She has kept her chin up, her smile on. 

“Where can I change,” she asks finally, pushing her shoulders back, pursing her lips, _Effie Trinket_.

Haymitch doesn't comment on the change, done hastily in the back of the plane where Katniss lies pale and wan and so dead to the world it brings tears to Effie’s eyes. It’s a grey jumpsuit and a bare face and flat shoes and Haymitch just nods at her and she feels so drained she can only slump into the chair, unbound now, unleashed. He sits next to her again and it’s still and quiet enough that she realises he doesn't reek of alcohol. It’s strange, Haymitch without booze and herself without _everything_.

“So that’s your real hair then,” Haymitch says finally, glancing at her briefly, pulling loose another Effie Trinket secret. 

When Effie was a child she’d been mistakenly locked in one of her mother's closets. It was cramped and dark and terrifying and the only comfort was her mother’s clothing, chiffon and silk and lace, that she tangled around herself to keep safe. It had taken hours for her parents to realise she was gone and when they finally did she was scolded for wrinkling _mommy’s silks_ and destroying _mommy’s lace_ when she’d lost control of her bladder. Effie had been terrified of confined spaces ever since (and comforted by clothing ever since) and when they go underground, down into District Thirteen, she holds her dress bundled up in her arms and breathes in the smell of silk and perfume. 

Haymitch doesn't seem to notice, he's more concerned about the rehabilitation he’s about to be forced into. That calms Effie down a little bit too. He won’t pry _that_ secret from her. 

When the Capitol attacks Effie is alone. She is sitting in her room (she’d stopped thinking of it as a cell when she’d been allowed to help Katniss) and the sirens start and instantly she knows she is going to die. She can barely move, can only reach for her dress, the mass of fabric that’s mostly lost it’s smell by now, and press it to her face. She knows what she’s supposed to do, she has a number, a place to be, just like everybody else, and they’re all filing passed her door toward the massive stairwell that spirals down and down and down into the very deepest parts of the District, but she can’t move. If she goes down that deep she will never breathe real air again, she _knows_ she won’t. 

Haymitch finds her crying into the ruffles of pink and he kneels in front of her as the world shakes and the sirens scream.

“Eff,” he says. “Effie, we have to move.” 

“I’ll die,” she whispers. “I’ll die underground and no one will care.” 

“You’ll definitely die if you stay here,” he points out and she bites down hard on the fabric to keep from screaming. 

He holds her hand. He holds her hand and they run into the crowd and down the stairs. He snaps something at one of the guards and whatever it is means he gets to stay with her and they sit on the bunk together and he doesn't let go. She knows she is digging holes into his skin but he doesn't even mention it. She wonders if he would if he were drunk. Probably. She doesn't care. 

“Talk to me, princess,” is all he says when dust begins to fall and she starts to shake uncontrollably. 

“There’s nothing, I’m nothing,” she manages, mangling the words with chattering teeth. He squeezes her hand.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I hate this place,” she starts viciously. “I _hate_ it. The lighting is bad and it’s damp and the water is never really hot. I hate it but I’m staying. I love Katniss, I love Peeta, I love... They were all I had even before, and I’m staying. This is an underground Hell, and I’m _staying_.” 

“I know you are,” he says gently. “It’d be boring without you.” 

He lets go of her hand and she squeaks in protest and he just moves closer, reaches his arm around her shoulders, hugs her roughly to him. 

“You’re a fucking nightmare and a pain in my ass but I might prefer it to everything else.” 

The world doesn't end just then and Effie keeps breathing and when they’re out, back in terrible lighting and lukewarm water, she kisses him. Her cheeks are hot with fear still and her hands are shaking still and he delivers her back to her room and she tugs him in after her. She kisses him fiercely with her hands tangled in his collar and he laughs against her lips and she bristles and pulls back but his hands keep her close. He kisses her back, he _kisses her back_ , and it irritates that he would feel the same, just like everything he does irritates her. 

“I don’t like you,” she clarifies when he lets her pull away for a moment and his grin is knife blade sharp.

“I know,” he purrs, and softly, so softly, he kisses the corner of her mouth. 

Effie Trinket cultivates mystery. It’s harder with Haymitch around, figuring everything out even as he tells her he doesn't care, but she will always have secrets. He knows her age and he knows her hair colour but her biggest fear changes. She can think of worse things than being buried alive. Now she has people she loves, people to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like every single one of my hayffie fics are the same, they start before the books/movies and are kind of vague about times and span long periods of time and whatever. I don't care, I like writing them. Also, I think Effie's age is different in the movies but eeeh, I'm using the age I figured out for another fic I wrote sort of?? Anyway. This came from me wanting to know where Effie was during the Capitol attack. Makin' out with Haymitch was my gut instinct obviously but... this is what happened. Thank you for reading!


End file.
